A Captive View
by Samantha Ryan 27
Summary: Historical HL slash fanfic. Methos meets Darius for the first time following a battle. Turns out the real conflict is about to begin. A companion piece to Esjay's Spoils of War.


A long plume of smoke curled lazily out of the dancing flames of a small fire and disappeared into the night sky. The gray haze was the only cloud in a sea of air that was clean and crisp with just the barest hint of an autumn bite. Methos stared into the flickering glow and slowly chewed a choice bit of roasted wild hare, savoring the explosion of flavors that burst across his tongue.

A distant sense of apprehension pooled in his gut, and he was conscious of its connection to his intended trip to town in the morning. Ridiculous at his age really, but it had been several weeks since he'd directly interacted with anyone, years since he'd lived among other people. He had become a hermit, apparently, and worse, he'd come to enjoy the solitude. The last time he'd passed through a town, the noise and clutter assaulted his eardrums with painful ferocity and the foul stench gagged him. Unfortunately, his supplies were running low and he could avoid the distasteful task no longer. Fortunately, there was a village nearby; he could smell it.

He gnawed the last morsel of flesh off the bone and tossed it negligently into the fire before dropping his head back against the smooth, cold surface of the boulder supporting his back. The shimmering diamond lights studding the sky shone so brilliantly tonight. He reached out wistfully, stretched upwards as if he really could capture some of that magic light, pluck one of glittering jewels right out of the sable hued heavens then let his arm drop again. No such thing as magic, just as there was no such thing as God, though on a night like this, one might almost believe otherwise.

The fire sizzled and popped around the bone he'd discarded, the flames devouring residual fat, and a melancholic ache throbbed in his chest signaling an emptiness he recognized with intimate reluctance. He bared his teeth in a ferocious snarl, burning to deny what he suddenly knew was true. But didn't he enjoy being alone? Of course he did - without a doubt. It was safer. It caused fewer problems. It was much quieter and less odorous…and it was lonely. He was lonely.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, arrested with the understanding of a truth that was inescapable. He'd been alone a long time, a two hundred year lifetime and while he was used to it by now, maybe it was time to step back in and live again instead of simply existing.  
It hadn't been like that at first, he mused, running his tongue across the softly serrated edges of his teeth, the sweet taste of blood still sharp in his memory even after all this time. A thousand years of death and blood and carnage demanded at least a hundred years of solitude, time that had become a blessing, a benediction, something he'd needed as badly as he needed air.

But that was no longer true, he realized, any more than his much touted hatred of people. True, cities were noisy and smelly but there was a hum of excitement there, a business and sense of purpose he had missed. When had it changed? When had his sanctuary turned into exile? How long he had longed for the pleasure of another soul to share things with, things like the awesome beauty of the night sky? He simply hadn't been aware of needing something different, not until this very moment.

He shook his head with rueful amusement and yawned hugely. Indeed, it was a revelation worthy of further exploration come morning though regardless of what conclusion he came to, he wouldn't be settling here. He'd been hearing rumors of a huge army headed this way for the past week and the last thing he needed was to run afoul of one of those unscrupulous marauders. The thought made him smile even as he rubbed both hands over his face and yawned again.  
Sleep first. Sleep, supplies and flight. He planned to be long gone before the raiders cut a swathe of destruction through this particular village. He wrapped his rough spun woolen cloak close around his body and stretched out a hand to touch the cold metal of his sword blade with a gentle, reverent hand. A prescient tingle worked its way across the back of his neck. He shook it off impatiently and traced one finger over the well-worn hilt, reassured by the sword's solid presence, then closed his eyes and slid into sleep.

Methos broke camp just before the gray light of dawn stole across the land and set a steady pace toward village. It was mid morning by the time he reached the bustling settlement and the air was redolent with the rich, heady scent of baking bread. It made him dizzy with desire. He hadn't had bread in a very long time and he would have paid any price to obtain some. As it turned out, that was a good thing because the woman he approached first flatly refused to sell him so much as a single slice.

He wheedled, he cajoled, he charmed, though he was sadly out of practice all things considered, to no avail. Finally, as she was turning to duck back into her house, her dark, wrinkled features set in lines of stubborn refusal, desperation drove him to produce a real prize, his own dagger. The fine honed blade flashed in the sunlight, arresting her abrupt movement and she turned back slowly, the raisin black eyes darting from the exquisite knife to his ragged clothes and back again.

But in spite of her private reservations about the origin of the blade, it was enough. The first bite of the warm, coarse stuff tasted as much like heaven as anything he'd ever consumed and was well worth the outrageous price he'd paid. He knelt beside the rough thatched hut and chewed slowly, eyes closed to better savor the incredible flavor.

Oh gods it tasted so good…he shivered a bit and forced himself to slow down, to take small bites rather than the huge chunks he longed to tear free. Soft whimpers of satisfaction sounded low in his throat and he knew it must appear as though he'd been starving. It wasn't true; game was plentiful but no matter how many snares he might lay, he was unlikely to catch a loaf of bread.

An unseasonably warm breeze riffled his grimy hair and gentle rays of sunshine caressed his face. He tilted his head back, angling toward the life giving light like a flower opening in spring, reveling in the kiss of the sun. An odd vibration was trembling through every part of his being, an awakening that was causing each of his senses to unfurl into an almost painful awareness. He was coming back to life, all the numb, frozen places in him thawing and he couldn't be certain exactly what had precipitated the miraculous event. Perhaps all he'd needed to heal the raggedness of his soul was time, and time was something he'd had plenty of.

Too soon, the delightful treat was gone. He popped the last morsel in his mouth with a twinge of satisfied regret. Ah well, if there had been more, it would not have been such a miracle. He opened his eyes, still savoring the crisp texture of the crust, and watched the unmistakable activity of a city preparing for battle. The woman hadn't wanted to sell the bread to him because of the coming conflict with General Darius, a brutal bastard who stood poised to tear their quiet town asunder.

Young men scurried around, half dressed for battle, followed by tight faced women of all ages carrying food and clothing of every imaginable variety. Methos wondered with melancholic sadness how many of them would return to this place; very few if any, no doubt. They were farmers and merchants, not soldiers, up against the great General Darius, a man who traveled with a tight knit, compact band of mercenaries well trained in the art of war. Barring a miracle, this peaceful village would be ravaged before long.

He dropped his gaze to his hands and swallowed hard. None of it was his concern, was it? He was but one man. He could do nothing to turn the tide. He glanced around for water, intent on quenching a powerful thirst and found a well less than fifteen yards away from him in the center of town. The village elders were gathered around it, engaged in a spirited argument about where the General would strike first.

Methos shook his head with a reflective half smile - as if any amount of discussion would change the outcome. He rose and slipped behind the babbling group to take a long, grateful drink of water from the dipper, eyes involuntarily drawn to the map sketched in the dirt.

"He will come in here ," one man insisted, tapping a stick meaningfully on the ground. "It is the only place that makes sense."

"Then that is exactly where he will not go!" Another argued. "He is skilled in these matters. He will not do the expected."

Automatically, Methos shook his head, the response purely instinctive. If General Darius was the type of man he'd heard of, then there was only one place - he broke off the thought midstream and dropped the dipper back into the bucket. He wiped the back of his hand across his lips, narrowing his gaze on the crude map. Given the relative position of the men's speculations, he felt fairly safe in assuming Darius and his army would be coming in from the east. If he skirted around to the north and west -

"Good day, friend," a low voice behind him murmured.

Methos started, surprised and glanced over his shoulder at a slim, bright eyed young man who stood behind him, flanked by two taller, more muscular companions. He nodded with wary cordiality, suddenly distinctly uncomfortable. "Good day," he replied, his own tone even.

"I don't believe we have seen you around our humble village before. To what do we owe the honor today?"

"Supplies. I was short on supplies and your village was close."

The man nodded, thoughtful. "It is a most unfortunate time you have chosen to come here. We are in the midst of preparing for battle. You are a warrior, yourself, yes?"

Methos recoiled, taken aback by the shrewd assessment. He'd never looked less like what he was. "I – that was a long time ago. I no longer follow that way of life. What gave me away?"  
The man smiled enigmatically and withdrew Methos' dagger from beneath his shirt. He tossed it to the ground at Methos' feet, where it quivered, point dug deep into the ground.

"Wanderers do not possess such finery. Abuantza did not like the way you looked so she brought this to me. She was afraid you might be part of Darius' army."

"But you don't think so," Methos guessed.

The man shrugged, his face aging ten years in the space of a breath. "I think it doesn't matter," he allowed, a slightly ashen pallor beneath his bronze skin. He looked beyond Methos to the huddle of men arguing over the scarred earth and shook his head. "I am Pallo, leader of these people. I gather you disagree about the attack and where it will come from."

Methos shrugged, face twisted into a slight grimace. "I am Methos. How would I know what the great Darius might do? I am but a wanderer."

The man smiled, exposing stark white teeth against dark brown flesh. "You are quite obviously much more than that, and perhaps that makes you the best judge of all. Where would you imagine the General would attack?"

Methos shrugged and gestured to a large open area that represented the fields. "He'll draw you out and bring you to him just beyond there. That way he has the advantage of selecting the terrain and it is open enough for him to maneuver. That makes it his home territory. Don't think that you will be able to use your crops as cover though because he will light those on fire as soon as he's got you in place. If you stay here and don't let him draw you…"

"If we do not allow him to draw us out, then he will come here and destroy our homes and rape our women," Pallo objected.

Methos swallowed and kept his eyes fixed on the ground. "He will do that regardless and nothing you can do will change that. It is the type of man he is."

The head man hissed in distress but there was nothing to say.

"You can send them away…"

Pallo snorted a bitter laugh. "There is nowhere to send them. This village is the last to stand against the great General."

"Then I am truly sorry." Methos offered. "I wish I could help."

He had rarely hated being right as much as he did this time. Raiders came swooping through the village before Pallo could even contemplate the things he and Methos had discussed, and drew the men out beyond the fields. The horror they faced there was much greater than anything they'd been capable of conceiving.

No such blessing was bestowed upon Methos who understood exactly what was coming. He still fully intended to avoid the entire battle by edging around the battlefield. It was a good plan, though how he later wound up in the very center of the battle was a mystery he never would figure out. He was keeping to the tree line when a wild-eyed, panicked boy soldier burst out in front of him.  
The signs of terror were clear enough and Methos had great hopes of defusing the situation. He held his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture of peace. "Easy there. You don't need to hurt me."

The boy with no more fifteen seasons behind him, stared, mesmerized and trembled like a frightened deer, his thin chest heaving.

"Look, neither of us has to die today, all right? It's ugly, it's messy and it hurts. I'd rather avoid it, wouldn't you?" He smiled gently, infusing a touch of humor into the situation, and was encouraged by a slight calm descending into the light gray eyes.

"Good, that's very good. Now I'll just move on along and you can go back to doing whatever you were doing." Methos took a single step forward and all hell broke loose around them.

Methos had told Pallo that their best and perhaps only chance would be to draw the General toward the forest, which was where the entire battle, it seemed, had just shifted. Actually, Methos had suggested the other side of the plain but evidently, one forest appeared as good as another. With the sudden arrival of his fellow soldiers, the boy found his courage and bared his teeth in a feral grimace, his sword singing through the air toward Methos.

Methos jumped back and parried in the same motion he used to draw his own sword. Instinct took over and he hacked and slashed and killed for an eternity, time slowing to an impossible speed. He had hours to move his sword into position, years to slice flesh open, to lay bare muscle and bone, centuries to drive the point through smooth, supple meat. He heard none of the screams and howls, no sound of metal clashing and men dying. His entire world had winnowed down to what was right in front of him. As soon as he impaled one and the body went limp, spilling gallons of blood over his hand he shoved it away, dragged his blade free and spun into the next challenge.

It was all so unreal, the whole scene cloaked in a red haze of memory until the moment Methos felt unbearable agony tear out in waves from the center of his chest. Then everything snapped shockingly into focus and he stared down with vague comprehension at the blade protruding from his chest. A bubble of blood formed on his lips, sweet and salty and he was falling, sinking so slowly to his knees, the intolerable din of the battle around him screaming mercilessly in his head. And the sky was so bright and blue it hurt his eyes - too bright for this carnage - too beautiful for the slaughter…too much pain…

Methos jerked, heaved a harsh, shuddering breath, coughed and came painfully back to life. * Fuck*, he hated dying. Sometimes he wasn't sure if worst part of the cycle was the dying part or the reviving part. Probably it depended on how one died. He'd had some particularly gruesome deaths.

At the same moment the thought skittered through his mind, he felt the wash of Immortal Presence and the sharp prickle of a sword at his throat. A curse, soft and violent, escaped before he could bite his tongue, the heavy weight of despair pressing down on his chest. Goddamn it, why now when he'd just decided he wanted to live again? What had he done to piss Fate off this time? He lifted his head, tossing back the wretched mess of hopelessly tangled hair and squinted up at his captor.

A tall man, finely built and well dressed in spite of the ravages of battle, his features long and gaunt but possessed of a haughty arrogance stood over him, pressing Methos' own sword to his throat. Lovely. Methos did not need an introduction to identify General Darius nor did he need any special divining ability to realize that his situation couldn't have been much worse. That particular variety of presumptuous assurance could only belong to the great man himself. He scarcely spared a glance for the man who stood next to him. Second in command, no doubt. He closed his eyes briefly and struggled to his feet, mindful of the pressure against his neck.

"You picked a bad time to revive, my friend," Darius observed in a cool, mocking tone. "Another few minutes and we would have been well away."

_/Really? Now that never would have occurred to me. Thank you so much for driving home my very great misfortune./ _Methos took a careful breath and fought against a wave of bitterness. It would be too easy to fall into sarcasm and he doubted that would be the best way to keep his head firmly attached to his neck. / _Just keep it light..._/ Humor had the potential for defusing things and there was no point in blathering for mercy. After all such tactics rarely worked, even under the best of circumstances.

He let his lips relax into a slight smile and offered an indolent shrug. "What can I say? It's been that kind of a century."

The tip of the sword feathered across Methos' throat, a parody of a caress meant to drive home the reality of his capture and the quality of the control the man who now owned his very essence possessed. His heart lurched. It was amazingly effective.

"What is your name, stranger?"

"Does it matter?" Methos countered, in spite of his best efforts to curb his tongue. "I won't need a name if you take my head."

A brief hesitation, a flare of interest, the quick spill of heat in those pale blue eyes set Methos back a bit. Well, wasn't *that* interesting. Startling, but interesting. He quickly adjusted his assessment of the General accordingly.

"Perhaps I won't take your head, just yet," Darius mused, in a dark, aggressive voice, full of unmistakable intent. "Perhaps you can be of some…use to me, before I take your Quickening."

The faintly seductive quality of that tone had Methos fighting the urge to roll his eyes; as if Darius was the first to think of fucking his captive before killing him. Why was it men like that always thought they had innovative ideas?

"How amazingly unoriginal," he muttered under his breath. Well, it might be one of the oldest angles in the world but it was one he could work with. He felt the tension in his shoulders and across his chest begin to unwind, hope blooming in the space left behind. Then he lifted his shoulders in a careless gesture of acceptance. "If you must."

Darius' nostrils flared, his sharp intake of breath audible in the sudden, tense silence. Methos locked eyes with the taller man, his own expression impassive and shuttered. Wouldn't do to reveal his frank amusement at the situation or his relief at having attracted a desire for something other than his head. Darius didn't realize it but the very act of allowing his captive to live beyond the next breath changed everything. The basic balance of power was in question now that he had some leverage and a chance at escape.

Darius hissed impatiently and prodded him with the blade. "Walk," he commanded.

And they did.

A precipitous change in the weather matched Methos' darkened mood perfectly. Clouds scuttled across a gray sky and the wind began to whip across the plain, cutting through the thin rags his clothes had become. Methos shivered, wishing he'd not wrapped his best wool cloak around the spare bundle of possessions that had been lost during the mad scramble with Darius' men. He hadn't noticed how threadbare and filthy his garments had become until his cloak was no longer available to protect him.

The main camp wasn't far but the tension spiraling among them combined with the cruel bite of the wind to make the journey seem interminable. Methos recognized the vibrations of after battle lust that sheeting off of Darius well. He couldn't count the number of times he'd ridden back from a raid with the uncontrollable urge to rape with repeated savagery until his cock was sated.

Which wasn't to say that he'd experienced it recently, but it wasn't something one forgot. And it probably meant he was in for a long afternoon, but it was nothing he hadn't been through before.  
The tip of his sword dug into his ribs, Darius guiding him from behind. It was another power play, thoroughly transparent by this time and Methos was beginning to enjoy the little game. He'd prefer to play it while personally in possession of a sword, but one had to be flexible.

"Inside," Darius grunted, low in his throat, shoving Methos toward his tent.

Methos willingly ducked out of the wind into the warmth with a soft sigh of relief and glanced around the pristine inner sanctum for clues about its owner's nature. A pile of carefully positioned furs at one end, a neat, obsessively tidy table, the precisely ordered sets of clothing…the rigid order of the inner sanctum spoke of a man for whom control was of the utmost importance and that was *most* interesting. Methos tucked the tidbit away for future use.

Darius exchanged heated words with his lieutenant before stepping inside, expression dark and stormy. Methos braced for the worst. The General, however, did little more than glower at him, wrinkling his nose in distaste. It did not take much effort to divine the reason for his irritation.

Methos arched his brows and folded his arms across his chest. Really, they'd been on a battlefield – what did Darius expect? And it wasn't as if the good General smelled pretty either, though Methos admitted privately it had been probably too long since he'd last bathed.

Darius stuck his head outside and barked a few commands, ordering water, rags, and whatnot. He waited by the door, regarding Methos silently, his normally pale eyes dark and shadowy with a curious hunger. Methos fought back a shiver, wondering what thoughts swam in those murky depths and how the man could possibly see past the months of accumulated grime to know if what he wanted lay beneath or not. It seemed General Darius' tastes ran a bit to the strange side, though perhaps what he was after was less than physical possession – or more.

A slave woman quickly returned with a bucket of water that Darius promptly took from her before sending her off on another errand. He turned to Methos, eyes glittering and smiled. Methos was not reassured.

"What can I call you?" He cajoled in a low, soothing voice, the kind he might have used to gentle a fawn before stabbing it through the heart to serve for dinner. "You must have some name I can use?"

Methos narrowed his wary gaze, looking for any hint of the suppressed violence he'd felt coiled within the man on the walk back to camp and finding none. Curious. He supposed this was the disarming phase, the point when Darius –

"I can call you Slave if you'd rather not tell me who you are," Darius suggested, comforting, patronizing, innocent, his tone practically demanding trust.

Methos flinched. Slave was such a demeaning term. If your master knew you only as 'slave' then you could rest assured the abuse would be excessive. 'Slave' was a thing, not a person, 'slave' connoted nothing worth protecting, 'slave' was the last thing he wanted to be called, regardless of the circumstances.

"Call me Methos," he offered reluctantly, mentally tallying one point for Darius. The issue was not what his name was it was that he'd been coaxed into giving it. He saw the flash of triumphant awareness in the pale eyes and ruthlessly schooled his features into impassivity.

"There now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" Darius crooned, leaning in close, his lips almost against Methos' ear. Hot gusts of air caressed the sensitive flesh and Methos tightened his stomach muscles to keep his breathing even, scalp prickling with awareness. Darius took another breath and then hissed, "Strip."

For a split second, Methos thought this was it. The time had come for the assault to begin, but then Darius stepped back and comprehension flooded through him. A bath. Gods above his brain was becoming mush. He lifted a quizzical brow at the General as if he hadn't understood the command. / _Make me, Darius _,/ he silently taunted. At least he thought the tempestuous words were spoken only in his head. He wasn't so sure when the General reacted as though he'd been slapped.

Darius moved in a blur, his mastery of the blade clearly evident in the speed with which he pulled it from its sheath at his side and pressed the cold steel into Methos' neck hard enough to raise a thin line of blood across the lightly broken skin. "You'll do as I say, or I'll take your head now," Darius purred. "It's your choice, my friend, but make it quickly."

_/Oh well, when you put it that way/ _…Methos thought sardonically but the only outward sign he gave was a shrug, as if it didn't matter either way. Darius loosened his hold remaining at the ready, waiting to see what Methos would do. And Methos wondered, as he dropped the filthy rags he was privately more than happy to rid himself of, how close he had been to dying just then. Had it happened in another lifetime with Methos behind the sword…

"Wash."

He started at the sound of Darius' harsh voice breaking through his reflections, and glanced up at his angular face then back down at the brimming bucket of water in disbelief. Surely he couldn't mean...but, of course, he could.

"Barbarian," Methos muttered under his breath. Where the hell was the tub? And the steaming buckets of water? And the sweet scented herbs? What the hell kind of bath was this? Nothing like he'd expected, that was certain but one glance at the gleaming sword dangling loosely from the General's hand forced him into action. He dipped a rag in the icy water and roughly began to scrub accumulated layers of dirt and blood off his skin.

Darius lounged on the pile of furs, a dangerous, predatory cat at ease, the heat of his gaze so intense Methos could feel its weight tracing the lines and planes of his body. An imperceptible shiver worked its way up his spine, a physical manifestation of the danger he'd only just now comprehended. Darius sang a siren song to the man he'd left behind, from the taut, sculpted muscles of his body to the flat, merciless gleam in his eyes, the leashed ferocity in his lazy walk and the unbelievable speed with which he wielded his sword. Methos felt the purely sexual pull of Darius' being, as powerful an addiction as any drug, as potent an aphrodisiac as any he'd ever encountered.

He gasped softly at the brutal shock of the icy water against his warm skin and slowly drew the rag up his arm and across his chest, applying just enough pressure to send droplets of water trickling down over his abdomen. Then he dropped his head back, exposing the vulnerable column of his neck, gently brushed the cloth over his throat. How much farther could he take this before it was too much, too obvious? He didn't dare look at Darius to find out. There was a fine line between a skillful seduction and blatant foreplay. Whatever happened between them had to be Darius' idea or it was no good.

When he finally finished, the water in the bucket was brown and scummy. He dropped the cloth back into the pail and flinched at the soft hot gust of breath on the back of his neck.

"Much better," Darius breathed, so close Methos could feel waves of heat radiating from the man's body.

He closed his eyes, swallowed convulsively and felt his cock stirring into life. He had to get a hold of himself or he would utterly lose control of the situation. He braced himself against the unbearable tension building between them, deliberately kept himself still and unresponsive but for the things he could not control. Thankfully, a cough from the door snapped the connection spiraling between them. Darius chuckled and brushed past him, ducking outside his movement lithe, graceful.

Methos shoved both hands through his hair and hissed a curse. Darius had no idea what beast his taunting needles threatened to unleash. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. No matter...he would deal with it. He would because he couldn't consider the alternative.

He had himself back under a tighter control by the time Darius reappeared, this time carrying a small dish and another pail of water. A man unafraid of hard work, Methos mused. Perhaps. Or perhaps he was simply a man who did not wish to share his prize? That was a motivation Methos well set the items down, secured the tent flaps, and turned to Methos, his smile dangerous and feral.

"Now it's my turn, yes? Come wash me."

The warm, honeyed tone broke over Methos like a balm, seeping into dark unnoticed corners of his body. Darius dropped his fine clothes to the floor and stood, unabashed, his sweaty body covered with purpling bruises and tiny, blood clotted slashes. Methos took less than a minute to absorb the raw power held dormant in that lean body before dropping obediently to his knees.  
His hand shook slightly when he picked up a clean rag and dipped it into the water. The sensation of the heated liquid against his raw flesh took him utterly aback and for a moment he stared, uncomprehending at the brimming bucket. Tendrils of steam he hadn't noticed curled up into the cool air of the tent and the picture gradually slid into place.

/ _Ah...of course, you bastard _./ Cold water for the slave, warm for the master. He shot Darius a reproachful glare, one that the General caught and returned full measure, pale blue eyes bright and hard with amusement.

"Yes?" Darius queried, raising one brow in question. "Something wrong?"

Methos bit back a surge of resentment, shook his head, and slid the cloth over the bare, satiny skin of Darius' chest. "No..my lord," he said softly, peering up through his lashes to gauge the other man's reaction.

The General looked startled and then quite pleased at the clear sign of submission. "See?" He murmured, lifting one hand to sift a thatch of Methos' dark hair through his fingers. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

/ _Easy for you to say from there, isn't it? Why don't you try it from down here? _/ He dipped the cloth back into the bucket without comment and continued the bath, carefully washing everything around the swelling penis that bobbed with insistent demand in front of his face. When he'd touched every part of Darius' body with the wet cloth, up the corded arms, down the smooth chest, across rippled abdomen, turned his attention to the long, hard shaft and the delicate balls beneath. Darius sucked in a sharp breath, arching into the teasing caress.

/ _That's right, General. Just let me make you feel good. And then, then we shall see who is master and who is slave _./ Methos pressed his lips tight together to suppress a satisfied smile, sliding the cloth back between Darius' thighs, one finger gently stroking the cleft of his ass.

Darius tossed his head, a clear indication for Methos to move to his back now. Wordless, Methos gathered his supplies and obeyed. He positioned the bucket to allow it to catch the water as it drained off the broad, supple shoulders and began to squeeze the rag out, pouring liquid heat over the aching muscles. And Methos knew it hurt. No matter how used to battle you were, when the fighting was over, your shoulders burned like hell. He used to enjoy a long soak with half his body immersed in water heated until he could barely stand it followed by a thorough massage done by someone with very strong hands and then a full night of bed sport.

He smiled reflectively at the memories and something in his chest throbbed at the loss - of his family of a thousand years, Caspian, Silas, Kronos, of the freedom and power, of the familiarity of the routine. The water traced silvery trails down the bronzed, sun kissed flesh and he chased them with the cloth, fighting the urge to lap at the tiny drops, to sink his teeth into the tender skin and taste the blood coursing hot and vital just below.

Two hundred years of peace and solace swept away in a single afternoon. The knowledge made him want to wail in frustration. The sudden urge toward violence was wholly unsurprising though he felt a powerful wave of anger at Darius and his dirty little war for being responsible for dismantling his carefully constructed facade of civility. The savagery of the afternoon battle had torn loose the underpinnings of his new self and it took all his strength to keep control.  
His hands settled on Darius' ass, the cool flesh firm and round and poisonously beautiful. The pressure behind his eyes intensified and he felt too hot, too shaky, too needy. He wanted that ass, could feel how it would be with the muscles clenched around his aching cock and he promised himself that no matter what the circumstances were now, he would have General Darius. Perhaps not now, but gods above, he would have him.

"You've done this before." Darius observed, tight and flat.

/ _Done what, General? Been with a man? Washed him? Been a slave? _/ The answer was yes to all of it and that meant it really didn't matter what he said. "A time or two," Methos agreed in a cool, bland voice that revealed exactly nothing of his inner turmoil. He could feel the tension winding higher in the body beneath his hands and it pleased him.

"Enough," Darius growled, snatching up a long cloth to wipe the cooling water from his skin with suppressed violence before throwing his long body down onto the pile of furs. "Come here."  
Methos took a moment to absorb the inherent beauty in the image of those graceful, golden limbs against the soft, dark fur before he obeyed. / _Beautiful _…/ The thought shimmered, unbidden through his mind as he knelt between widespread, powerful thighs, and skimmed his hands up the lean, corded muscles, enjoying the rough texture of the wiry hair against the sensitive pads of his fingertips. It irritated him because he didn't want to find this man compelling on any level.

He met the predatory anticipation in Darius' gaze with feigned detachment then bent and took the General's stiff cock all the way down his throat in one, easy movement. The indolent relaxation immediately deserted the body beneath him and he felt Darius struggle for control, sensed the shudder that rippled just below the surface.

Methos drew on the tender organ with steady suction, and set an apparently clumsy pace, one guaranteed to keep the tension high without allowing release. He felt dizzy with the heady aroma of male sweat that clung to Darius' skin in spite of his diligent attentions, overwhelmed by the salty flavor of the other man's most intimate flesh.

He suppressed a groan of pleasure at the feel of the muscles surging and trembling against him. Oh gods it had been a long, long time since he'd done this, too long, and it felt so good he shuddered in response. The sensation of fingers sliding through his hair to the back of his neck, ever so gently, surprised him somehow. His eyes flickered up, caught an answering gleam of triumph in Darius' heated expression and dropped again.

/ _Oh General…never underestimate your enemy… _/ He allowed a low hum to begin vibrating deep in his throat, gentled the quivering flanks with long, even strokes, lost himself in the thrill of possession. The foot against his shoulder that sent him flying onto his ass earned a smoldering look and really pissed Methos off. / _Not quite a game point, but that was a big mistake, General_./

It was another power maneuver, effective but most annoying. It broke his concentration and knocked him right of the mood. As did the snarled commands to follow, 'Get up,' and 'bring me that dish.' Methos obeyed, tamping down a simmering resentment. His cock leaped at the ready, smearing a hot streak of pearly fluid across his stomach and he handed over the dish with a sardonic flourish. / _Have a care that the hunter does not become the hunted… _/ he thought as Darius took his hand and drew him down to the unbearably soft furs.

Methos lay back quiescent, leaning on one elbow and watched the General's slow deliberate preparations. His hunger threatened to slip loose from his control, impatience longing to overwhelm finesse, but he held the reins tight until Darius was ready. He clenched his teeth against the barest brush of fingers across his aching cock followed by a fleeting caress over the already tightly drawn sacks, and then a teasing pressure on his ass and the long, slender finger was inside. At last…his breath hissed violently.

He'd barely time to adjust to the incredible sensation of having that clever finger stroke inside him when Darius reared over him and was suddenly, shockingly fully sheathed. /* _Gods _!*/ He gasped, overwhelmed by the sweet mix of pleasure and pain, struggled to regain his equilibrium, fought for something as simple as a breath. Darius refused to allow him the respite to collect himself and drove deep into him with merciless intent.

The punishing strokes struck sparks across that special place somewhere deep inside and he met the powerful thrusts with equal force. / _Yes, oh yessss…take me…harder…/ _The spiraling pressure of his orgasm unfurled from that shiny, bright edged knot, gathering at the base of his spine, a massive thing, huge, irrevocable, possessed of a life separate from him that threatened to break loose and sweep him away. And he didn't really care. He choked on an incoherent sob of need, reaching for the pinnacle, striving for release,

And then Darius stopped, fingers digging cruelly into Methos' hips, his prick poised right *there*, waiting. Even in the midst of his desperation, Methos could feel the heavy weight of Darius' patience, the compelling heat of his gaze on Methos' face. Shocked, disconsolate, Methos clutched desperately at the taut back and fought for leverage. Darius held him fast, refusing to allow him to move, still waiting. Methos deliberately clenched his inner muscles around the invading cock with some distant thought of pushing the General past control and still, still he waited.

Methos squeezed his eyes more tightly closed, unwilling to look, refusing to see what price the man had set for fulfillment. He growled, low in his throat. /* _What _?*/ What was he waiting for?

"Say it," Darius commanded.

/ _Fuck you _./ Methos snarled in his head, rocking his hips, fighting to sink deeper into the furs. Just a bit more movement and he would have it, Darius and his little games be damned. But Darius was wise to the maneuver and simply held tighter.

"Say. It." Darius hissed.

Methos ground his head into the furs, shook it violently. "No," he breathed, teeth clenched. More games…more and more and more…

Darius grunted, slid his cock back into the heady warmth, painting bright streamers of pleasure in his wake, then pulled back and paused at the same damnable spot. Games…it was a taste of fulfillment, a glimpse of heaven, a slice of hell. Methos drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"Say it," Darius coaxed, teasing, leaning in close enough to kiss. Methos arched away, exposing his neck to the hot, moist gusts that caressed the sensitive flesh.

/ _What the hell do you want _?/ He writhed, unable to get the friction he needed and finally opened his eyes to fix a harsh, slitted gaze onto Darius' face. What he read there in the tension flattened planes eased the impossible knot wound in his chest and he had to fight the urge to laugh in relief. / _That's all? That's all you want? Oh General… _/

Simple surrender was so very little to demand. Well, what else could it be after all? This wasn't Kronos, the brother who possessed such intimate knowledge of Methos he could dismantle him with a word, lay him bare with a glance, remake him with a touch. This was nothing like that. Simple, physical surrender…ah…he writhed a bit more, drawing out the anticipation for another moment and then relented.

"Please," Methos hissed. "Gods, please just fuck me."

Triumph flared hot in Darius' eyes, hollow and meaningless if he but knew it. "See how easy that was?" he crooned, releasing his bruising grip from Methos' hips and dragging his hands over Methos' sides to cradle his face. It was the last thing Methos saw before he let his eyes slide shut and abandoned himself totally to the driving pleasure.

Darius set a harsh rhythm, hard, fast, and utterly brutal and Methos climbed with him every step. He quivered on the edge of ecstasy for long moments, arching into the driving force between his thighs, the muscles of his jaw aching from begin clenched so hard for so long. / _Harder, you bastard. Harder… _/ He knew he was crying out, making incoherent sobbing noises, but it wasn't anything he could control. He needed the relief that shimmered just out of reach as desperately as he needed his next breath.

And then, finally, it was enough. His entire body went rigid, and he groaned and shook with the force of the orgasm breaking over him. Darius muttered an incomprehensible curse in response, his fingers digging into Methos' shoulders with crushing force, and let go, tossing his head and shuddering as he spilled his essence inside Methos' body.

He collapsed, a limp, heavy, sweaty weight pinning Methos to the furs. It didn't matter though because Methos didn't plan to move for at least a week anyway - he didn't think he was physically capable of the feat. His limbs felt as flaccid as seaweed, a hundred times more weighty than they should and a bone deep languor robbed him of any desire to free himself. Aside from that, it just felt good to bear the weight of Darius' body, to have the substantial form pressing down with suffocating force on his chest. It was one of the greater mysteries of life, why a mass that would be too much under ordinary circumstances suddenly became just right when applied in the magical aftermath of a sexual frenzy.

He sighed, contented, a soft, reluctant sound that whispered through the silence in the moment before Darius' muscles flexed and bunched. He grimaced, frustrated that he'd barely had time to enjoy the lassitude of the moment before he was forced into regretting the abrupt return to their razor edged battle for supremacy. He knew what was coming, braced himself for it, but was unable to prevent the sharp cry that followed as Darius jerked himself free and rolled over to collapse on his back, gasping from exertion.

Methos remained there for another long moment, empty and achy, wishing things were so simple as to permit him to roll over and fall asleep with the solid warmth of Darius' body snug behind him. And for the span of a breath, he considered it, contemplated what it would mean to relax like that with this man. He was so young and vital, so passionate and arrogant, and so very much like Methos himself had been once. Methos stared at the ceiling and contemplated that little revelation, ruthlessly quashing the tiny pang of regret. Another entire lifetime ago and he had taken a different road.

Heaving another disconsolate sigh, he forced himself to rise and retrieve the bucket of water he'd used to clean Darius before. His entire body vibrated with life, the painful vigor akin to the shock of plunging fully into an icy mountain stream. He wasn't sure whether to thank Darius or kill him.  
He moved with slow care, mindful of the burning ache in his bowels. He felt as if he'd been impaled on a spear, though it wasn't that Darius' cock was particularly large, just long. And it had just been such a long time since he'd had anything of that size in that particular place.

The General never even glanced up, and Methos swallowed a smile. In his arrogance, Darius must have assumed he'd tamed his captive and that was a something of a mistake. In the space of that moment, he could have taken Darius' head though it wasn't what he had in mind for the remainder of their time together. Instead, he kept his eyes cast down, dipped the cloth in the cooled water and carefully began to wipe the sweat from the sweat and semen streaked torso. He'd not forgotten his vow to possess Darius' body and he fully intended to take him apart before they were done.

"So, you've been a body slave before?" Darius' hoarse voice came from a distance, inconsequential and insubstantial, lost as he was in his own thoughts.

"Among other things," Methos allowed, swirling the cloth over Darius' chest gently and dreamily pondering the best way to wrest the General's precious control from him. His reverie was abruptly interrupted by sensation of hard fingers that grasped his chin and wrenched his face up.

"You will look at me when you speak to me. Is that clear?" Darius ground out, his expression dark and menacing.

Startled, Methos obediently met his eyes, face blank aside from the small flare of his nostrils and the slight flexing of his jaw. It came to him in an unbelievable but somehow unsurprising revelation that Darius imagined that he knew Methos now, that he somehow owned him and that taming him was even an option. Remarkable. _/Ah General, you're looking at me as if you know me. You *don't* know me. _/

But evidently whatever surface secrets he'd uncovered in Methos' face satisfied him. Darius released him, and relaxed back onto the furs.

"Clean yourself and come back to me," he commanded, waving his hand negligently toward the bucket of filthy water Methos had used.

Master/slave again, though they'd never been anything else. Methos turned away, feeling the skin across his cheekbones tighten, anticipation a living, writhing entity in his abdomen. He was intensely aware of the predator in him hovering dangerously close to breaking free and the weight of hot, possessive eyes fixed on him made his skin burn and his guts twist with excitement. / _Patience...patience _./ He cautioned himself as he ran the dirty cloth over his body with brisk efficiency. Seduction was no longer an option at this juncture - they'd come much too far for that.

When he'd finished, he returned to the pile of furs as ordered, eyes downcast again, hands folded in his lap. "Yes, my lord?" He murmured all soft submission. It was testament to incredible strength of his self control that he didn't launch himself at Darius and pin the man to the furs, wrap his hand around the newly swollen cock and push him beyond thought, beyond control. Instead, Methos took long, deep breaths through his nose and waited.

A long, heavy moment passed, before Darius cursed under his breath and shoved Methos' head roughly toward his groin. "Please me," he snarled.

/ _Temper, temper _…/ Amused, Methos bent obediently to his task, pleased at finding the first crack in Darius' demeanor. He ran his tongue up the rigid shaft, swirled it around the fleshy tip, delicately flickered it across the balls, then deliberately pushed the foreskin back and engulfed just the swollen head in his mouth, licking off the pearly drops that beaded on the slit.

He felt the distance Darius had placed between them, the barrier as tangible as a wall, aware that the General's mind was anywhere but right here in the tent. He planned to change that and, to that end, used every teasing stroke in his repetoire and Methos had a considerable arsenal of sexual tricks at his disposal. It was that, along with Darius' own fatal fascination with Methos and his raging battle lust, that created an irresistible combination.

In the space between breaths, the balance tilted in Methos' favor. He was so completely attuned to his partner he immediately felt the tiny, almost imperceptible movement of Darius' muscles rippling beneath the skin, the involuntary, uncontrollable thrust of his hips upward. It was so slight he might have missed it had he not been paying such close attention. And that was the perfect moment to begin unraveling the man.

/ _Now that I have your attention _…/ Methos pulled back, allowing just the tip of his tongue to rest on the slit and glanced up, waiting.

Darius shifted restlessly, glared at him, hot, uncomfortable, impatient. "What are you waiting for? Get on with it!"

It was what he'd been waiting for, that lust induced, impatient anger a signal to proceed. Methos began the seduction in earnest, still keeping it light, still pacing it. He felt the weight of Darius' possessive gaze searing against the top of his head and sensed the inner struggle he waged. The General was desperate not to give in to this and equally desperate to spill again at any price.

Methos mouthed each ball in turn, then traced a trail of liquid fire beneath them, back to Darius' opening. His tongue flickered delicately across the sensitive flesh and Darius froze, his entire body clenched and struggling to adjust to the wet assault.

Methos teased and taunted, reveling in Darius' twitching moans, the way his legs fell apart farther as he grappled for purchase on the slick fur. Finally he relented and shoved his tongue all the way in, his invasion of the tender orifice ruthless. And, alas, it wasn't enough. Methos knew it wouldn't be. He'd been there too many times to not know intimately what the man needed. Being taken by a tongue was hot and sweet, almost unbearably so, but it wouldn't even come close to easing the throbbing need so deep inside. Darius shivered and shifted, his hot, aching body reaching desperately for something more...Methos fumbled for the dish of animal grease, dug his fingers in.

/ _Patience, General, patience...we've only just begun _./ He pulled his tongue free to replace the tormenting offender with two fingers that he promptly shoved against the pleasure spot he knew was secreted within...right there...oh yes. He heard the sob, forcibly torn from Darius, saw his hands crumple the furs in a crushing grip and relented again, adding another finger and engulfing the leaking shaft in his mouth. Darius nearly came off the pallet. He writhed, his body torn into setting a brutal, punishing rhythm between Methos' hand and mouth, relentless in his desperate battle to reach the peak.

Methos obliged by adding another finger, and finally the muscles relaxed enough to accommodate his entire hand. He felt a surge of tenderness for the tormented man writhing beneath him. He'd never imagined Darius would trust him enough to allow this type of invasion. He caressed the small gland in a steady, merciless rhythm that matched the glide of his tongue over painfully rigid flesh, the dual assault designed to take the man as far as possible.

A string of nearly incoherent pleas for mercy and release and more tumbled from his lips and fell against Methos' satisfied ears utterly without, Methos was certain, his conscious intent. Methos had accomplished precisely what he'd set out to do; he'd snapped that precious control and reduced the great man to a quivering heap of bone and muscle ruled only by his cock. He did hope the General enjoyed himself.

"By the gods…please!" Darius begged and Methos felt a surge of triumph.

/ _And I didn't even have to ask for it, General. _/

One last swirl of his tongue, a slight twist of his hand and Darius' entire body convulsed, shuddered, and a flood of scalding fluid poured down Methos throat.

He'd not expected it to happen that way. The thought troubled Methos as he dug through Darius' neatly organized trunk in search of suitable clothing for his escape, taking a perverse delight in pulling the neatly folded piles out, one by one. It wasn't that the unexpected result was unwelcome, it was just…disturbing. He gathered the luxurious folds of his stolen tunic so that the deliciously warm fabric draped just to his knees and tossed a dark brown mantle across his shoulders, securing the petal soft cloak with a piece of polished bone.

He crossed to the pallet and stared down at the long, elegant, sprawled limbs, still amazed that his sensual efforts had resulted in Darius losing consciousness. He shook his head in wonder. It was too convenient. He'd considered burying a knife in the General's chest just for the sake of form, but discarded it in the end. There just wasn't any reason for it.

He sighed again and prowled around the tent, hunting for his sword. Damn thing *had* to be here somewhere…how could Darius have hidden it? They'd never been apart.

He found a bag of gold that would get him well started on a new life, and Darius' sword. He hefted the blade with a scowl. It was of good quality - how could it not be? - but it wasn't his and he wanted his own sword. Methos was about to toss it aside when he caught a quick wink of metal in the folds of the General's discarded clothes.

He used the tip of the sword to brush the garments aside and suddenly a fist squeezed his heart without mercy. On the floor lay his dagger, the one he'd traded for bread - gods was it only this morning? A wave of melancholy swept over him and he picked it up, ran his fingers over the hilt and down the flat of the blade and thought how sad it was that the raisin eyed old woman would never make another loaf of bread.

Well, that was the way these things went, wasn't it? Warriors like himself and Darius led to dirty little wars, and dirty little wars led to dead people. He sheathed his knife in a smooth, savage motion and spotted his sword propped in a corner. He retrieved it, conscious that recovering his dagger had somehow stripped him of any lingering desire to stay with Darius for any length of time.

He'd told Kronos once, not long ago, the world was changing and their way of life couldn't continue much longer. He still believed that though obviously it hadn't changed as much as he'd thought it was going to at the time. Clearly there were still places for men like him, places where his talents would be admired and respected. The thought made him slightly queasy.

Still, he'd no illusions about himself. He was what he'd always been and always would be; it was something he was comfortable with, in spite of everything. That he'd been Death, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and that a part of him would always belong to that time and place was an irrefutable fact. It was one small part of the rainbow of experiences that made him who he was.

But Death belonged to someone he no longer wanted to be. He stepped back to the pallet, a sword balanced in each hand. He didn't want to be admired for his ability to slaughter women and children or for the number of men he could run through with his sword at one time. He felt empty and hollow and he needed something much different than what he could find here, playing sexual power games with a man who hadn't discovered how barren this life could be.  
Darius slept on, so quiet and peaceful he might have been immersed in the sleep of the innocent. Methos stared down at him and swallowed over the lump that rose in his throat. Gods, he hadn't slept that soundly in years, centuries, in fact. The screams of the innocent still haunted his dreams. And to think that once he'd been a healer of some note - it was scarcely to be believed.

He touched the blade of his sword experimentally to Darius' neck to see how it felt. He hadn't taken a head in more than a hundred years and he frankly didn't miss the experience. If he came out of his solitude, however, he could expect to begin running into other Immortals on a more regular basis and he wasn't certain how he felt about that.

He grimaced and put his sword away; he was stalling and he knew it. He could tell by the quality of the light coming through the tent walls that it was nearly completely dark and he would never have a better chance of escaping without burying a knife in Darius' chest. Chances were excellent that the General's men were indulging in their own celebratory party, which meant he would be unlikely to run into anyone on his way out of the camp.

He took a single step toward the back of the tent then stopped and turned around, hefting Darius' sword thoughtfully. The General liked games, now didn't he? He grinned, a feral little smile, lifted Darius' sword and plunged it into the pallet, directly between the wide spread thighs, scant inches away from his manhood. Methos had no doubt he would appreciate the challenge.  
"Sleep well, General," he whispered. "Until we meet again."


End file.
